Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (16 page)

“Everyone?” Miss Forrester squeaked, her eyes unblinking. In fact, Oliver felt fairly sure she had not blinked since the moment Antonia, with her voluptuous, vulnerable manners, had burst into the room.

“Oh yes!” Antonia replied. “All of Venice is desperate to know who the student is that Carpenini will place against the great Gustav Klein.”

“All of Venice?” Bridget repeated weakly, only to have her voice be lost beneath Vincenzo’s more forceful one.

“‘The ‘great’ Gustav Klein?” he asked, his mouth coming down into a harsh line.

“Now, Vincenzo, do not give attention to that; I have come for a reason. Oh, but Miss Forrester”—she turned her attention to the other lady in the room—“you must be very talented to be Vincenzo’s student. Do you think I might hear you play?”

“No!” Vincenzo cried sharply, earning him a knowing, suspicious look from Antonia.

“But, Vincenzo,” Antonia said, her voice a challenge. “You have been locked up in here with the young lady for over a week. I hear rumors—about acrobats, and circuses, and madness, that it makes me wonder if you are teaching her anything at all.”

The implied question—that if he hadn’t been teaching Miss Forrester for the past week, what
had
he been doing with her—hung in the air, until Oliver himself stepped in.

“Signora, they have been working very hard,” he said, bending over her hand. “As I can attest. I have listened to scales, drills, repetition of pieces so much my head is a ringing bell.”

He gave her his most charming smile and earned a charmed one back from her. Thus cosseted by a man’s—any man’s—full attention, Antonia practically purred in contentment.

It took only one sharp look to Vincenzo to get that man on board. “Yes!” he cried, elbowing his way in between Oliver and Antonia. “In fact, we have been working so hard, we are just about done for the day. You”—he leaned forward and kissed Antonia’s cheek—“have come at just”—he kissed the other cheek—“the right time.”

Antonia giggled. Vincenzo grinned. And Miss Forrester cleared her throat.

“But Signore, it is not yet three . . .” she offered quietly.

“No matter, we have worked hard enough today—remember, Rossini is fluid grace,” he said, and suddenly the lesson began to break up. Antonia moved to the side to allow Miss Forrester to stand and gather her things—albeit never letting go of Vincenzo’s hand.

“Yes, Signore,” Bridget said quietly, unblinking, shuffling papers, finding her portfolio, stretching her back.

“And no—”

“Practicing at the hotel,” she finished for him.

“
Buono!
” he cried, and before they realized it, Oliver and Bridget had been pushed from the music room and into the hall. Before the door closed behind them, he could hear Antonia giggle as Vincenzo said in Italian, “Now,
cara
, you say you came for a reason. I wonder what it could be?”

And suddenly, the thing Oliver had spent these last days wishing for, to be alone with Miss Forrester, had come to fruition.

And yet he still did not know what to say.

They stood in the hall for some moments, until Oliver realized they were not in fact quite alone.

“Frederico”—Oliver turned to his unresponsive valet, who, in his chair, seemed to be overly engrossed in that day’s press—“could you please fetch Molly from the kitchens? Miss Forrester is going home for the day.”

“Oh, but I cannot!” Miss Forrester cried. “That is, James is supposed to collect me at three, and it is not even two o’clock yet.”

But just at that moment, another high-pitched giggle erupted from the music room, filling the awkward echoing silence of the hall.

“Perhaps it would be best if I escorted you back to the hotel, where you could rest before meeting your family,” Oliver replied.

“Oh, but I . . .” The girl looked torn, not knowing what she should do.

“I will not accept no for an answer,” Oliver said, and with the reappearance of Frederico, bearing Molly in his wake, he took Miss Forrester by the elbow and guided her to the door.

As they wandered into the cobbled streets, watchful Molly falling only a step or two behind them, the first question Miss Forrester asked was not the one Oliver expected.

She had been uncommonly silent. Although whether or not it was uncommon, Oliver supposed he shouldn’t really know, as this was only the third time he had managed to walk her home. But it seemed like she was tense, and chewing over something in her mind. And he knew, in his gut, it was censorious of him.

He had begun by trying to engage her in mundane things and work his way up to what he meant to say. After all, if he managed to veer in a random direction, it could take a half hour or longer for them to wend their way back to the Hotel Cortile.

“Tell me, Miss Forrester, when you went to the Rialto Bridge yesterday, did you stop by the San Giacomo di Rialto? The building with the clock? If not, we could go back and see it; it is one of the oldest buildings in all of Venice—”

“Mr. Merrick,” Bridget said abruptly, bringing the small party to a halt. “Can you tell me why the Signore forbids me to practice at the hotel? I have been turning it over in my mind and I cannot fathom it.”

“
This
is what has been bothering you today?”

“Yes!” she cried, her eyes meeting his for the first time that day. “All I want to do right now is go back to the hotel and practice. To sit at the pianoforte for another few hours, to try to work my way into understanding what he means by fluidness. We’ve been working on it for days. And I think my playing is fluid. What do you think? Is my playing fluid?”

Oliver could only stare at her in shock for some moments.

“Well?” she asked, jarring him out of his stupor.

“No,” he finally said.

“No?” It sounded as if her heart broke on the single, short word. “No, you don’t think my playing is fluid?”

“Yes, I mean, no—I mean, I find your playing very fluid, but then again, I am not the master,” he said in a jumble. Then, clearing his throat, “I meant to say, no, that cannot have been what has kept you in such a twisted state.”

“I assure you it is,” she promised, a small smile painting her mouth. “I’ve been torturing myself for days and days, and my mother has been having James bring us to wherever they happen to be to avoid you, and I cannot even pretend to practice!”

“
Your mother
has you avoiding me?”

“Actually it’s your fault for kissing my hand, but that still doesn’t answer my original question: Why am I forbidden to practice?”

Oliver felt like he had been spun around three times and knocked upside the head with a mallet. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the fray.

“All right. Let us take this one question at a time,” he said, and began slowly walking, Bridget falling into step beside him. “First of all, Vincenzo does not want you playing at the hotel because he is precautious of conspiracy.”

“Precautious?”

“Yes. And not unjustifiably. Anyone can walk into the hotel and hear you play. If that someone happens to be a spy for the Marchese, or his competition, Klein, then they can report back how well you play, and try to undermine us accordingly.”

Miss Forrester raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That seems a bit extreme.”

“The musical world of Venice can be a treacherous one, that much Vincenzo does know.” Oliver answered darkly. “While we cannot conceal the fact that you are his student, as you come and go from my home on a daily basis, at least there no one can simply barge in and eavesdrop on your practicing.”

“Except for today,” she replied under her breath. Ah, she meant Antonia.

“We will work our way back to Signora Galetti,” Oliver replied, holding up a hand. “But first, you have to tell me what you meant.”

“What I meant by what?” she asked.

“That you’ve been avoiding me because I kissed your hand?”

“It’s not my doing.” She sighed. “In fact, it’s hers.” She nodded to Molly.

“Don’t look at me!” Molly cried indignantly. “I’m not the one that kissed you on the hand—
ungloved!
—in broad daylight!”

“When you walked me home, you deposited me at the hotel and kissed my hand,” Miss Forrester interjected. “And it was taken by
some
”—her eye flew to a stiffly uncompromising Molly—“as a bit too . . . European, especially from an English gentleman.”

“Met the girl not a se’nnight ago, and now you’re kissing her hand, without the chaperonage of her mother nearby!” Molly said stiffly. “What’s next? A kiss on both cheeks? How long will it be before you have the girl taking afternoon lie-downs on a settee with you?”

“Molly!” Miss Forrester admonished, blushing. “At any rate, Molly took it upon herself, instead of making the affront known to you, to suggest to my mother that we have an escort to meet her and my sister at whatever tourist spot they have decided upon for that day, thus saving me from your lascivious advances.”

Understanding dawned, and Oliver felt like laughing. So he did. Long and loud. So long and so loud that he drew curious glances, not the least of which was from Miss Forrester and Molly.

“Stark raving mad. I told you, miss,” Molly grumbled under her breath. “This whole scheme. Stark raving mad.”

“Miss Forrester, I mean no offense. To you, either, Molly. Your protective instincts for your charge are to be commended. But I cannot imagine why a simple kiss on the hand would evoke such response.”

“That’s what I said,” Miss Forrester cried happily, turning her attention to her maid. “Everyone kisses everything here. Hands, cheeks—why, Signor Zinni kissed the top of my head once! Although I’m fairly certain he mistook me for his daughter, who works in the hotel’s kitchens; we are of a height . . .” Miss Forrester let that thought trail off, refocusing her argument. “Besides, if you are so worried about my welfare with Mr. Merrick, then why do you go down to the kitchens during lessons? There I am unchaperoned with not one, but two gentlemen—one far more ‘European’ than the other!”

“As long as I can hear you playing, I know you are safe,” Molly replied stiffly. “I come running up quickly enough when the music stops.”

“Well, that is certainly true,” Oliver mused, recalling how, for the past several days, whenever there had been a break in the music, not fifteen seconds had passed before there was a discreet knock at the door, and Molly slipping into the room, usually bearing a tray, unobtrusive but watchful.

“Besides, it is so commonplace,” Miss Forrester continued, “I hardly
remember
him kissing my hand. And it is such a rote action for gentlemen here, I doubt Mr. Merrick even recalls doing it.”

Well, that was a bit less true. While Oliver did not remember the impulse that led him to take her hand in his and press his lips to its back, he certainly remembered doing so. He remembered more than anything the warmth of her fingers . . . how slender they were, how small and strong and agile.

But Miss Forrester looked up at him, confident, and all he could do was nod with authority. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to their inquisitor.

“Molly,” he said, as deferentially as he could, “I know you are wary and watchful, and it does you credit. But please know and trust that I have no illicit intentions toward Miss Forrester. Her safety and happiness are my foremost concern as well.”

Molly eyed Oliver suspiciously, her gaze boring into him as if she could read all of his secrets.

He rather hoped she couldn’t.

Instead, he tried to convey a trustworthiness that had been bred into him as an English gentleman, no matter how much he had tried to deny that part of himself over the past five years.

And suddenly . . . he wanted it. He wanted to be trusted by this guard dog of a maid with the welfare of her young lady. He wanted to be worthy of that.

It must have worked, too, because in that moment, the moment something in his body switched over from the feigning to the desire, Molly’s expression cleared. Instead of regarding him as an enemy, he knew in that moment she had decided that he could be an ally.

“Well, if you say as much, I’ll believe it,” Molly admitted, only a little grudgingly.

“So there is no need to fetch us and escort us to Amanda and Mother, wherever they are?” Miss Forrester eyed her maid. “You know I am so tired after the lessons—I can barely keep my eyes open at the churches and cathedrals . . .”

“I suppose not,” Molly admitted. Then with a quick glance beyond them, she added, “In fact, do you mind if I go ahead of you? I would like to head off James before he leaves the hotel.”

Oliver raised his eyebrow in shock, but Miss Forrester gave Molly her consent, and off she went.

“Well,” he drawled, watching the maid’s retreating form as she moved nimbly through the crowd. “When Molly decides to trust someone, she doesn’t waste any time, does she?”

“I suppose not. Although I don’t think she ever did not trust you. She comes from the country, I believe, and her English sensibilities have been shocked into a tizzy by Venice.”

“By a kiss on the hand?”

“That was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back. You should have seen her when we landed in Rome; the ornateness of the churches sent her back to her room with palpitations.” She grinned at him impishly. “In every other regard she is the most practical person I know.”

“Well, if it offends her practicality, I promise to never kiss your hand again, Miss Forrester.”

Although, did he? It was said in jest, but the notion did not sit well with him in the least.

But she just smiled at him. “That would likely make her feel much better. Although my next request will not.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I implore that you call me Bridget, or Miss Bridget, if you will. I have been the ‘Miss Forrester’ in my family for almost a year now, and yet I still cannot hear it without thinking my sister Sarah looms over my shoulder somewhere.”

“I cannot promise to remember every time.” He shook his head. “Although, if you take to calling me Oliver, I’m sure it will help my memory,” he replied, a strange warmth filling his chest. Could it be that they were, even in their strange circumstances, becoming friends, of a sort?